


Lo Chiamavano Nicolò Di Genova

by lilithilien



Category: Lo chiamavano Jeeg Robot | They Call Me Jeeg (2015), The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Bring Back The Porn Challenge, Canon-Typical Violence, Crossover, Hurt/Comfort, Luca Marinelli Cinematic Universe, M/M, and magical healing cock, because if you can't write magical healing cock for BBTP when can you write it?, but i can't write PWP, it was supposed to be PWP, nicky takes care of joe, so there's trauma too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-01
Updated: 2020-09-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:35:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26233537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilithilien/pseuds/lilithilien
Summary: “So has this kind of thing happened before?”“You mean have we ever watched one of our evil doppelgängers go on a killing spree? No, I’ve gotta admit, this is a first.”The Old Guard encounter Nicky's evil double. Joe does not handle it well. At all.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 28
Kudos: 207
Collections: Bring Back The Porn Challenge





	Lo Chiamavano Nicolò Di Genova

**Author's Note:**

> _"Ah, BBTP, it’s been a while. How are you, old friend?"_  
>  _"Yeah, yeah, that’s great, but have you seen_ The Old Guard _yet? Let me introduce you to this shiny new thing…"_  
>  *goes every conversation I’ve had in the past six weeks*
> 
> I haven't written pr0n in … huh, was it really that long ago? Okay, well anyway, I had to write the Immortal Husbands for BBTP because they are fierce and soft and resolute and flirty and protective and vulnerable and they're all and they're more. I hope I’ve managed to get some of that into this fic.
> 
> Just a heads up - it starts out pretty dark, but then turns very tender because my muses are arseholes and like their smut with a dash of trauma. And it's a crossover with _Lo Chiamavano Jeeg Robot_ but you do not need to have seen that movie to read this... all you need to know is that Lo Zingaro was already a dangerous psychopath before he fell into radioactive waste that turned him into a very strong and very, very hard to kill psychopath - injuries from falling off buildings and gunshot wounds just miraculously heal up. Kinda like some other folks we know.
> 
> (If you do decide to watch the movie, trigger warning in the endnotes.)
> 
> Thank you to my beta goddess, [amoama](https://archiveofourown.org/users/amoama/pseuds/amoama). All remaining errors are mine.

“Copley contacted us,” Andy tells Joe as soon as he walks in the door. “He says he’s found something you’ll want to see.”

No conversation that started that way has ever ended well. Copley’s promised to wipe their online presence, and he’s done that efficiently - and invisibly. Joe is quite happy to know that the cockroach is far away, working his dark magic on their behalf, without him having to see, hear, or think about the man, thank you very much.

“Have you seen it yet?”

At that moment, they hear a howl of disbelief from the kitchen. “Oooooh myyy god...”

Joe and Andy move up behind Nile so they can see the laptop screen. On it plays [an unsettling stream of violence and mayhem](https://youtu.be/zy_g76fqBUc). A man is walking down a long corridor annihilating everyone in his path. He moves from kill to kill like he’s a dancer in a ballet, unnaturally strong, lifting and tossing lifeless bodies into the air as if they’re made of paper. At the end of it all, he turns to the camera that has filmed all this with a disturbing smile. 

But it’s not this horrific sight alone that makes Joe and Andy gasp.

“That looks like…” stutters Joe.

“Just like, yeah,” agrees Nile.

“Where’s Nicky?” says Andy.

*****

The man goes by the name of Lo Zingaro, “The Gypsy,” according to Copley.

“He should not use that name,” Nicky says grimly, his eyes flitting over to meet Joe’s. “The Roma people do not deserve this.”

“It’s hardly the worst thing he’s done,” points out Nile. 

Seeing Joe about to jump in with a well-oiled argument about the centuries-old persecution of the Roma, Andy interjects, “But it’s the last thing he’s going to do, if we have anything to do with it. Joe, Nicky, get down to Rome, see what you can dig up on the ground. Nile and I will get the rest of Copley’s intel and meet you there. Rendezvous at Safehouse Lazzaro in two days.”

“Okay, boss,” Joe and Nicky agree.

Nile watches them leave and waits for their door to shut before asking, “So has this kind of thing happened before?” She’s still not sure what’s normal in this new world of hers.

“You mean have we ever watched one of our evil doppelgängers go on a killing spree? No, I’ve gotta admit, this is a first.”

Nile nods solemnly. “So what are we going to do?”

“We’re going to stop him,” Andy says, her voice steeled. “And we’re going to take care of Nicky and Joe.”

*****

And that’s exactly what they do. 

*****

Information on the ground is scarce. With rising protests against austerity erupting into violence, Lo Zingaro’s defiance has been welcomed by many of Rome’s young and frustrated. The fact that he’d offed one of the country’s most notorious mob bosses and her entire family in one go only adds to his fame. The stories told about him grow by the hour. And after the fourth time Nicky is mistaken for the man, Joe steers them back to the safehouse and insists they just wait for Andy and Nile.

Unfortunately, this safehouse is woefully ill-equipped for hunkering down, with only a few well-worn novels and an old laptop that has to be plugged in and still doesn’t turn on half the time, and because they can never let themselves fully relax before a mission, there’s little for them to do but think.

What they’ve heard about this villain is disturbing. They know that he’s strong - stronger than they’d originally thought, now that they’ve seen how he obliterated the massive concrete barriers of the Stadio Olimpico. On top of that, he’s now believed to be indestructible. He supposedly blew himself up with a handmade bomb that went off in the Tiber River, but in subsequent and increasingly manic videos, he boasts of his survival, of other massacres he claims, of other carnage he plans to tear Rome apart. Joe and Nicky watch his pixelated face in growing horror.

The laptop screen blinks out again and Nicky rises, pushes his hand across his face in frustration. At times like this, his thoughts come out as paces across the room, Joe’s in unnatural stillness.

“Do you think he could be like us?” Joe asks, his voice numb. The thought is like a kick in his gut. Finding one of their kind is never without complications, but he’s never imagined that one of them might live forever as a psychopath.

Nicky breathes in deeply before he responds. Joe knows he’s been pondering the same question, and it feels like time slows as he considers his answer. When finally Nicky shakes his head, the world starts to move again. “It doesn’t feel the same,” he says, “and I haven’t dreamt of him. Have you?”

“No, I don’t think so,” Joe says, then adds, “but how could I be sure? I always dream about you.”

Nicky smirks. “I will choose to take that as your attempt to be romantic rather than your admission that you can’t tell us apart.”

Joe has meant it in earnest, and reaches for Nicky’s hand so he will know that. “Do you think I could ever mistake your heart, which is mine, for his? That man may share your face, but he is as unlike you as night is from day.”

The door of the safehouse creaks open but Joe and Nicky, their eyes locked on each other, barely acknowledge Andy and Nile’s entrance.

“Looks like we got here just in time,” interrupts Nile. 

“Wanna hear the plan?” Andy asks.

*****

Fortunately, Copley comes through. Using his contacts, Nile is able to intercept a large cache of weapons being transferred from Naples, and it doesn’t take long after that to track down Lo Zingaro a.k.a. Fabio Cannizzaro. That’s when things go to shit. Over the millennia they’ve run up against every kind of crook, from small-time gangsters to criminal masterminds; they’ve challenged the most profane secrets of orthodox religion and the most vindictive political profiteers; they’ve taken down vicious dictators and merciless human traffickers and soulless serial killers and everything in between.

But the very worst, the kind of foe they hate the most, is a narcissistic psychopathic sadist who’s backed himself into a corner. 

Especially when he takes one of them with him.

They get Nicky out, of course they do, but that’s later. First, they find Cannizzaro. Wearing Nicky’s clothes, he has somehow managed to convincingly tie himself up, complete with a gag, just so that Joe’s elation when they find "Nicky" can be more soundly crushed, and their surprise when booby-traps go off can be even more deadly.

It takes all three of them to take him out because the man doesn’t want to die. Not that he can’t die - he can, but it takes all their combined firepower directed at someone who, dressed as Nicky, his body buffeted by slugs just as Nicky’s would have been, reminds them of Nicky with every shot. And it takes Joe most of all, gritting his teeth at first, then angry wails that devolve into messy sobs, then finally turning cold as steel as he empties chamber after chamber without stopping into the eyes of his love, until even Andy is worried about his state of mind.

Nicky is easy to find after that. He’s been stripped and left to shiver in what looks like a dog kennel, but he’s otherwise unharmed, and it’s a simple matter to extract him and race to the airport before the police get around to investigating the gunshots. None of them wish to return to the grim safehouse.

“Ragusa,” Nicky suggests, glancing at Joe to correct his use of the archaic name. But Joe doesn’t respond. Since they’ve recovered Nicky, he’s sat pressed up against his side, clutching his arm in a way that suggests he would not welcome being separated. But he hasn’t looked at Nicky yet.

“Dubrovnik,” Andy translates for Nile, who goes to buy their tickets. 

*****

It’s dark when they get to Nicky and Joe’s house within the walls of the medieval city. Joe still hasn’t spoken a word, and Nicky is visibly anxious, although he tries to hide it as he welcomes Nile to one of their favourite homes. “Can you…” he finally asks Andy, and she nods.

“Of course. Nile, you can drop your stuff in the guest room at the end of the hall. Get yourself cleaned up and then I’ll introduce you to fritule. You’ll love it.”

Nicky smiles his thanks at her. It’s not the first time one of them has stepped up with a pretence of normalcy when the others can’t, and it’s always appreciated. “Beloved,” he says softly to Joe, “let’s get cleaned up.”

Joe looks up and, seeming to notice his surroundings for the first time, mumbles, “Good night, Andy, Nile.”

“Laku noć,” Nile replies. 

“Looks like somebody was studying the in-flight magazine,” Nicky hears Andy’s approving laugh as he shuts their bedroom door.

*****

Both men are filthy, despite their hasty scrubbing in the airport toilets and the outfits they’d grabbed at Duty Free. They shed these and climb into the shower together. Despite the house being several centuries old, and in the possession of the Di Genoa family since the late 1800s, the last decades have seen the introduction of some modern conveniences that Nicky and Joe no longer care to live without. A double-rainfall shower big enough for two was at the top of both of their lists.

Nicky takes his time washing the gore from Joe’s head, his beard, the creases in his elbows and his blood-stained fingernails. He hums as he goes, a Persian lullaby from long ago, one that transports Joe back to peaceful times, to fragrant gardens and the scent of oranges on the breezes off Mount Deraak. As he is being tended, as he’s been hundreds of times before, Joe starts to relax. He’s soothed by the feel of Nicolò’s hands, those graceful, long fingers he loves so much. He’s seen them rest on a trigger for hours without trembling and flutter like hummingbirds around his words when he’s trying to make a point. Now, as they massage shea butter into Joe’s curls, each reassuring touch brings him a step closer to himself.

He reaches out his own hand to touch Nicolò, his other, better half, his everything and his more and his all. His palm flattens against Nicky’s chest and he stares at the streams of water sluicing over his skin as if they’ve become one body. He’s feeling more grounded now, with his hand rising and falling with his lover’s breaths, with his heart beating sure and steady underneath. Joe raises his eyes to Nicky’s face -

_Lo Zingaro is laughing at him, his mouth wide in a macabre imitation of Nicky’s joy. His green eyes are sharp as flint, malicious madness in them as they scan Joe head to toe. Joe is screaming as he fires between those eyes. Nicky’s head recoils, his face awash in blood that pours over him and doesn’t stop…_

“Yusuf. Yusuf, my love, come back!” Nicky speaks in archaic Derja, his tone hushed but insistent. “Come back to me now, ay, that’s it.”

Joe follows the tender words like a beacon back to himself. He realizes he’s crumbled to the floor of the shower, his hands clenched in tight fists, crushed into his face. The water has already been turned off and Nicky is kneeling beside him. From him flows a river of words, quite literally sweet nothings, simple terms of endearment and comfort in a mélange of living and dead languages. He towels Joe off and guides him to their bed as if Joe is a child who can’t look after himself. Right now, he can’t.

“I’m sorry,” Joe says, “I’m so sorry.”

“Beloved, what is it? Why are you apologising?” Nicky covers him with a light woven blanket, for comfort more than warmth on this balmy evening, and lays beside him, so close Joe feels his breath. “You've done nothing wrong.”

Joe looks into Nicolò’s eyes and can’t stop himself from wincing. They are his eyes… He hopes that Nicky won’t notice, but he does, of course because Nicky has spent the better part of a millenium perfecting the art of noticing Joe.

“Look at me,” he says. His voice is gentle yet commanding, a feat learned as a priest but practiced over centuries, and Joe must do as he bids.

He opens his eyes to see Nicky staring intently at him, to see him smile, if a bit sadly. “You and I know better than most that this world holds its secrets close. That this man wore my face is one of them.” Nicky’s eyes pierce him as surely as hammered steel, as if he wants to pour understanding into Joe in the only way that he will be able to comprehend. “But I do know that you had to kill him. Even if he looked like me, you had to kill him.” 

Nicky’s words penetrate him, coming from this man who is more just than any he has ever known, this man who would never choose to kill if he can imagine any other option. “He had to be stopped before he hurt anyone else, and you, my soul, you were there to do that. You were there to do the hardest thing, because you are Yusuf al-Tayyib and your compassion runs as deep as the oceans.”

Joe drinks in the words. Nicolò is rarely so effusive as this, choosing to show his love through his actions instead, but living with a Maghrebi poet has rubbed off on him. That Nicky saves such words of love for him alone makes Joe feel like the luckiest man in the world.

Something still troubles Joe though. He has long known the difference between compassion and hatred, but once, a long time ago, these emotions had been blurred. They had surged up again as he fought Cannizzaro, as he felt revulsion rise like bile while looking into that familiar face. They threaten to blur again as he gazes at Nicky.

“As dear as this face is to me,” Joe says, clasping Nicolò’s cheek in his hand, “his was hateful because it was a lie. And I'm afraid it still has some hold of me.”

Nicky smiles, and Joe feels warmed by its brightness. "It can't hold you for long, because you are mine. It's just a shadow and it will flee in the light. You told me you would not mistake his heart for mine, and I know you will not mistake mine for his now.” 

_Help me._

Joe doesn’t speak aloud, but Nicky hears him anyway. His lips cover Joe's with a shade more pressure than to be strictly reassuring, leaving Joe in no doubt that he intends to drive out any lingering shadow of Lo Zingaro. “Sono qui,” he whispers into Joe’s mouth. “He’s gone. I am here." Joe opens to him, willingly, eagerly, relishing the slide of their tongues, pushing the kiss further toward what he wants, what he needs, the whole of Nicolò.

Between them, the thin blanket separates their bodies, an unexpected friction where he thought to feel skin, not unpleasant, and not unwelcome for it heightens the sensation of his desire for this man. As their bodies grind Nicky pulls him closer, his hand sliding down the curve of his ass, fingers kneading the soft cloth and the curve of Joe's hard muscle under it. Joe's need sharpens as Nicky's mouth slips down his neck, his teeth scraping faint half moons on Joe's skin. He moans, and feels Nicky's mouth stretch into a grin.

"Yes, beloved, tell me what you like."

"I like that," he says, "I like-"

He gasps at the sharp bite on his nipple.

"Cheater!" he hisses, making Nicky chuckle. With Joe's nipple still locked between his teeth, the vibration sends a bolt of electricity racing straight down to Joe's balls. He’s already so hard and he aches for more touch, more pressure, more of whatever Nicky can give him. Desperately he grinds against Nicky’s hip like he wants to wear through the blanket.

Suddenly the sensation is gone as, swiftly, gracefully, Nicky shifts so he's on all fours above Joe. Floating inches above him, Joe whimpers at the lost friction against his cock. At the sound, Nicky’s fingers reach out to trace his lips. Joe’s tongue darts out to capture them, begins to suck them eagerly, a look of such bliss on Nicky's face that he wants to do a thorough job. “Madonna santa, Yusuf, but you are beautiful,” Nicky says with what sounds like awe. Joe feels like he will burst for love of this man.

Sitting back against Joe’s thighs, still watching him carefully, Nicky reaches his wet fingers behind him. Joe can't see them, but he knows from Nicky's expression that he is slipping them inside himself, using them to stretch himself open. His breath catches in his throat at the sight of Nicky’s shameless pleasure, at the knowledge that he is preparing himself for Joe. 

“I want you,” Joe says, starting to stroke himself, feeling himself harden even more. There are times for words and times for coherence, but right now, truly, all he wants is Nicky, and it doesn’t matter how.

“Use the lube,” instructs Nicky, nodding toward the nightstand, and Joe realizes that Nicky has put it there, has been planning this, has known that Joe would need just this. Reading his lover’s intent, Joe quickly spreads lube over himself, careful not to bring himself much closer to climax. Just watching Nicky maneuver himself into position above Joe could be enough to undo him.

“Look at me,” Nicky says, and Joe can't tear his eyes away as Nicky lowers himself, impaling himself on Joe's cock. He is tight, Joe would have spent much more time preparing him, stretching him until he can slide easily inside. But now, gravity and Nicky's will lowers him until he is fully seated, until Joe can feel Nicky's balls heavy on his own, can feel Nicky sheathed around him, their bodies merged like one.

“Move,” Joe whispers, he pleads, “please, move.” Nicky rocks his hips back then presses down again, again so tight that it pulls Joe's breath out of him. He doesn't stop this time, but lifts himself back, then thrusts forward with deliberate slowness. Too many times, amidst missions in safehouses across the continent, they have to hurry these moments. Here, in their own home, they try never to do that. Here, they can be themselves, give themselves to each other and the ways that feel genuinely their own. And this, this is his Nicolò through and through, this deliberate pace, patient, unhurried, fully aware of the effect he is having on Joe and milking every second for all it’s worth. 

“Look at me, Joe,” Nicky commands again, although Joe has turned his eyes away. “Look at me,” he repeats, and Joe understands. With all his senses, Joe is being reclaimed. There is no room for Lo Zingaro, not when he can hear Nicky's deep growl of pleasure as his hips churn against Joe's, can feel the slick glide of his cock enveloped deep inside. Not when he can breathe in his love’s unmistakable musk under the scent of the olive oil soap Nicky likes, or taste his skin as he captures Nicky’s fingers between his teeth. And in his eyes, there is no room for anyone else, only Nicky’s face contorted in shades of pleasure. 

Nicky moves faster now, his hips ricocheting as he strikes the perfect spot again and again. His mouth falls open in blissful astonishment, his sounds of pleasure growing with each thrust, each one pushing Joe closer to release. Joe, hungry to bury his own cock deeper inside, thrusts his hips higher even as his fingers encircle Nicky’s girth. Its weight in his hand never fails to thrill him and he strokes his lover expertly, loving the velvety feel of his skin sliding in his hand, twisting just the way that he knows drives Nicky crazy, building his pace gradually but relentlessly until a murmured blur of endearments fills his ears. “Si, si, amore mio, that feels so good, cuore mio, Yusuf mio...” His words devolve into a keening cry as he erupts, striping Joe’s belly in hot rivulets of come. With each spasm of his release, Nicky’s arse clenches tighter, ratcheting Joe’s orgasm higher and then even higher, until the exquisite pressure is too much for him to withstand and with a cry of bliss, he tumbles after Nicky into oblivion. 

Afterwards, spent and too exhausted to leave the bed, Nicky drags Joe’s towel across their sticky bodies. “Chokran, ya amar,” murmurs Joe. His eyes are already closing as he pulls Nicky into his chest. Curled together they sleep, Lo Zingaro forgotten.

*****  
“How do you like Ragusa?” Nicky asks Nile the next morning, but before she can answer Joe steps in.

“You’re showing your age, hayati,” he says, kissing the top of Nicky’s head. “No one’s called it that for over two-hundred years.”

“It’s on the property deed,” Nicky reminds him. “City of Ragusa, Kingdom of Dalmatia.”

“Nicky’s very proud of that deed. He negotiated a good price from the mayor - although I still say he should’ve given you the house outright after all you did for the Teacher’s School.”

“It was well worth the money,” Nicky counters, “just to see your happiness when I told you it was ours.”

"I did like that bakery next door. And I figured with the stairs we’d work off all the povitica..."

Nile drinks her coffee contentedly, enjoying watching the two men banter as they always did. Seeing them the night before, she had feared that something had been broken. But Andy, as usual, had been right. Some things can only be fixed with a magical healing cock.

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warning for rape of a mentally incapacitated rape survivor in the person’s care. Not by Zingaro but by the supposed “hero” for the sole purpose of his character growth into, you know, someone who might not rape a mentally incapacitated rape survivor in his care. Yeah, it’s really gross.


End file.
